


The Problem of Susan

by iamfitzwilliamdarcy



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, The Problem of Susan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-16
Updated: 2015-09-16
Packaged: 2018-04-21 01:06:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4809092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamfitzwilliamdarcy/pseuds/iamfitzwilliamdarcy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Twenty-five years to the day, Susan Pevensie finally wakes up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Problem of Susan

“You’re up early for a Saturday,” Jonathan said when Susan came in. He was sitting in the kitchen, cup of coffee in one hand and the newspaper spread out on the table before him.

“Yes, dear,” Susan said. “You remember what day it is? I don’t want to get to Finchley too late.”

“Right, of course.” He had forgotten. “It’s only an hour away, though.”

“Still.”

“Would you like me to come with you?” He sounded bored, but still, it was kind of him to offer.

“No thanks,” she said. “I called a cab; it should be here any minute. I think I’d like to be on my own today.”

He finally glanced up from the newspaper and gave her a small smile, the one that she’d fallen in love with years ago. It was insufferable, now. “As you wish, darling,” he said.

She gave a tight smile in return and sat down for breakfast. They didn’t speak again except to say good-bye as Susan left.

“Finchley, eh?” the cab driver said. “What business you got there, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Visiting family,” she said. She put on a smile and chatted with him some.

“How long have you been married?”

“24 years in few months,” she said, smile slipping some.

She’d married Jonathan in a fit of infatuation, lonely and lost and so sure they would last forever. He had known her before she lost her family, had taken her to parties and danced with her and loved her. He’d always wanted what was best for her—the best dresses, the best make-up, the best treatment from their peers.

He’d been with her through the aftermath of the wreck, helping her through her grief. They’d married only 3 months later. It had worked, for a while.

Now, he was unspeakably bored with her and she with him. They didn’t even fight these days, as they had in their early years, because that would require more than five words spoken between them at a time.

They’d never had children, too busy with their social lives and careers, and by the time Susan realized she wanted any, it was too late. She pretended to herself that she never really wanted little ones, anyway.

The driver pulled up at the funeral. “Ah,” he said. “My condolences.”

“Thank you.” She paid him, and he left.

She walked quickly; she had her routine now. She started with her parents, laying flowers down for them. It was hard, without them, but she supposed it was the natural order of things—for them to go before her. She just wished there had been more time; she had never quite learned enough from them.

Peter was next. Her first friend, her brother, from whom she’d first learned kindness and gentleness. He was the last one of them she’d seen before the accident, with his friendly smile and patient eyes. He’d invited her to come; for a moment, she wished she had.

She sat next to his grave, curling her legs under her. She never spoke to them, when she came. It all felt a bit silly to her. It was all she had of them, though, other than memories, and even those were fading. She couldn’t hear the sound of Peter’s voice anymore, or Lucy’s laugh, couldn’t see the quirk of Edmund’s lips when he was trying not to smile.

They’d been so young then. So had she. She was old, now, and wanted desperately to be young again. Young and pretty without a care in the world.

“You have forgotten who you are.”

She jumped at the voice, rich and deep and warm, and familiar in all the ways she couldn’t quite place. She looked around, but there was no one there, not even a gardener.

Flustered, she stood and moved on to Edmund. She’d loved him more than anything, doted on him when he was little; she’d helped her mother bathe him, helped feed him, helped Peter watch out for him when they were away from their parents. They had been so close once. They had argued the last time she’d seen him; she’d never apologized. He hadn’t either, but these days, she didn’t know which one of them was wrong anymore.

“You’ve forgotten who you are.” The Voice again, firmer, more insistent.

“Who are _you_?” she said aloud, demanding. She got to her feet again and looked around, but couldn’t see anyone.

“You have forgotten,” The Voice said, sad this time, longing.

“Who are you, Sir?” she insisted.

“I am Myself,” He said. “The One you once knew.”

“And who am I?” she asked, keeping her own voice controlled. She knew perfectly well who she was—Susan Richards née Pevensie, aged closer to 50 than she would like to admit, former secretary and shop girl, dutiful wife, excellent hostess. Unhappy, but she tried to ignore that. She was surprised she couldn’t come up with anything more. 

“You have forgotten who you are,” The Voice said again, and Susan nearly stamped her foot.

“This is ridiculous,” she thought. “I’m talking to nobody.”

She shook her head and continued on. Lucy was next, dear sweet Lucy. She paused, suddenly overcome with grief that she hadn’t felt in years, as strong and as potent as it was when she’d first heard the news. It hadn’t gone away, the grief, not really, just dulled into an ache she sometimes thought about. She’d healed, or at least, had moved on. 

She let her hand rest on top of Lucy’s headstone, and everything flooded at once—sweet Lucy, valiant Lucy, leading them through a Wardrobe and across a gorge, in tears when Susan wouldn’t believe her. She remembered her, head thrown back, crown askew, riding off to fight Rabadash, Edmund at her side, and Peter, in his robes and crown, returning weeks later, victorious from his battle with the Giants, weary and warm, arms open to catch them as they flocked to his embrace.

She gasped a little, took a step back, and remembered herself.  _I was a queen once._ With hair flowing to the ground, gentle and kind, and there had been feasts and battles (and she shuddered, remembering how she’d hated those) and princes from a neighboring kingdom whom she had loved. She’d learned from centaurs and fauns and Animals of every kind, had swum and fished and rode horses. She’d helped put a young prince take back his throne from his usurper uncle; she’d rode with Bacchus and his girls, had ridden the back of a lion. Of  _The Lion_.

She’d been a queen once, until it’d all gone wrong and she’d been thrown back here. It had been hard, so hard, and easier to just pretend until she'd forgotten she was pretending at all. She’d called Lucy childish once in Narnia, had called them all that many times over since coming back—but she’d been the child all along. So eager to grow up, so eager to stay young. She’d thrown herself into parties and fun and clothes and make-up and never once thought of well-being of her own soul. She’d wrapped herself up in herself and the things of the world and maybe it’d made things hurt less, but at what price?

She’d always thought they were the problem, the ones who couldn’t let go, the One who’d made her leave when all along  _she_  was the problem, the one who’d thought she’d healed but had barely moved on, who’d chosen to forget rather than confront her pain, who’d thrown it all away and gotten nothing in return.

“Oh,” she said, softly, voice barely a whisper.  She was startled to find she was crying. “Oh, I remember. I do. I was a queen once.”

“And still are,” The Voice said. “If you so choose. Come home, Queen Susan. Come home, Gentle Queen.”

“I don’t want to die,” she said, childish, childish, always childish.

The Voice laughed and it sounded like a purr. “You will die one day, dear one,” It said gently. “But not yet. I am here in this world, too. Come back to Me, and live.”  
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, Aslan.” And the name came from her lips easily, despite the years, and it filled her with a warmth she had long forgotten, the warmth of a magic winter thawing into spring. It echoed:  _Aslan, Aslan, Aslan_.

It made her feel like a child again, but not childish, not anymore. 

**Author's Note:**

> tbh I did not do this justice at all, but I tried. The Susan tag just kind of annoys me sometimes. a bit heavy-handed, but hey, so was Lewis.


End file.
